Spider and the Fly
by theimmortalkitty
Summary: There's a soldier in a bar, and a fiddler in the corner. Everyone has secrets that they've kept hidden. (Wow what a pretentious summary sorry)
1. The prologue

Hey, so this was first posted on Ao3 but I thought I'd probably stick it on here too.

The silver of the moon hangs low in the sky, casting blankets of night over the streets.

The gates to the town stood as they always had, open to all who could protect themselves. One such person crept up to them now, slipping past the guards easily. For his height he was surprisingly quiet, the swishing of his night-coloured cape against his thighs, and the soft scrape of gravelly sand beneath his feet the only sound. Dressed in dark navy's and purples he blended with the background and snuck in unnoticed.

Softly he strolled though the market. Now he tried less to be quiet, the market being loud and brash in atmosphere even at this late hour. As he ducked to avoid a punch gone wild from the fray in the centre of the square his cloak rippled slightly. It was an almost inconsequential movement but if you had been there that evening you would have noticed one less poster plastered to a wall.

The realistic drawing of a kindly gentleman with green eyes would not be seen by the townsfolk that evening.

A glass had just been placed on the bar, carefully if not politely, on the bar in front of a soldier when the door slammed open. Cracks of gunshots and screams of terror echoed around before the door was brought to a thudding close.

The soldier turned minutely and slowly, with the grace of a tired dancer, to raise his drink at the intruder. There was a whisper of movement then she was standing behind him, hand curled protectively around his neck.

"James"

"Natalia"

She nods to the barman as he places a pint glass down before her, and if given a grunt in return.

"Nice place" She observes as she slides onto the stool beside the soldier, his gaze returned to his beer. It is nice. Clean, with mismatched wooden furniture scatter around in table and chair formations. A fiddler plays in the corner, his fingers like artists, drawing haunting notes from the driftwood fiddle in his hands.

The beer is bitter as she sips on it, and room temperature. Out of the corner of her eye she sees her companion shuffle in his seat a little. Out of respect she waits for him to speak, but before he can do so the fiddler stops. There is a sound like nails on the blackboard and the fiddler has stopped. Natalia palms the knife she keeps on her a all times. Nick has disappeared from behind the bar, there is no one there to help them.

From behind there is a rustle of cloak.


	2. The Prisoner

"Had his free breathing been denied, The range of the steep mountain's side; But why delay the truth? he died." - The Prisoner of Chillon

Hunger strikes lightning through his muscles, making him clench and twist in pain. The jerky movements, however, did nothing to stop the stabbing sensation; only caused him more unwelcome wounds. He was very much regretting his actions.

Brock Rumlow was never a cautious man. It had gotten him into trouble with law enforcement, gangs, an arson attack and one time, a cult. Never, however, in his many years of crime and violence been beaten by a 4ft violin player from Ireland (the grisly solider that appeared halfway through the fight might've had something to do with that).

Find a way out of this place - yeah , do that first. Before they call Carter. Rumlow shuddered, either Carter was Bad News (yes they deserved capital letters).

He got to his feet and looked around. A first look told him he was most likely in a basement; which had a window at street level up on the wall. If he could reach it he could probably work out where he was, though it was unlikely that they'd taken him far. Maybe there was a pub nearby, Rumlow mused, he could definitely do with having a drink.

The rest of the room was pretty boring. It was small, dark and the walls were just as hard stone as the one he'd woken up propped against. Brock had, on the brightside, found a door. By walking into it.

(Ah well at least he added to his collection, of bruises that is)

To his left there was a creak, and the blasted door swung outwards. The bear-man from the alley was silhouetted in the dim light, shadows playing around him.

"So you're up." It wasn't a question. The door was opened and he was beckoned up narrow stairs, and through a door. Remember that bar you looked forward to? Rumlow thought to himself. Think you might've just tried to kill the in house musician.

The bar he found himself standing in was not massive, but big enough that a crowd had gathered. They sat on tables and chairs, or lent against each others shoulders but were all staring at him. Fuck.

A blonde man stepped forward, not the same one Rumlow had tried punching. This man was stockier and taller but also followed by a dangerous looking brunette. Did they come in pairs?

The two men stopped in front of him.

"Brock Rumlow"

Well shit they knew him.

"Theif, asshole, puncher of fiddlers?"

"-yes."

Jesus what was so important about this fucking fiddle player? Uh oh, the blond man was turning to the crowd, who were starting to grumble, and raising his arms.

"Lets teach this idiot a lesson"

...

Fuck


	3. The Doctor

Wooden crate boxes, scratched ink of the brand prints, littered the roadside. The homes, huge and towering - cities in their own right - looked similar. Faded blues and greens. Dust from the road, gravelly and red, like paint that's been left forgotten on a palette. Someone coughs. It's a rattling sound, wheels of the cart grinding to a halt beneath a street lamp. Guttural. The man on the back swings his legs off, dismounting. An air of calm surround him, impenetrable but warm.

The sharp cry of "Doctor", makes him lookup. A window in the tower above him is open, what little light flickers there spelling out onto the street. "Quickly" In the flat he quickly divests himself of his over coat, a thick woollen thing more suited to the cold winters of the Americas. He strides over to the bedside, as looks with kindness upon the woman lying there. "Hello, my name is-"

Snap of a gun being loaded, pressed against his neck. Slowly, so, so slowly he raises his arms. "Let me guess," he says with mirth, although it does not show in his eyes, "you know who I am." There is a snort from his attacker, who simply pushes the gun harder against his neck making him lean forwards, the woman on the bed smiling in amusement. Not ill, not even with a cold. He had walked straight into the steel of a trap, and had let the door swing shut behind him. The accomplice on the bed cocks her head to the side, mouth open to spew a dark remark, or perhaps an order. The baton hits her between the eyes and she goes limp in a heartbeat. A trickle of blood runs down her arched brow. There is a thunk, a body hitting metal and then, silence. The hand with the gun is shaking now, the icy muzzle caressing the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

The good doctor waits a beat, the flicker of time between a thought and an action. He spins, fist pounding at the mans kneecaps, ducking to avoid the shot from the gun. It goes wild. Now he stands and his would-be captors lie, reevaluating their choices. There is the featherlight foot tread, and shuffling closer is the baton wielder, weapons hanging at his sides. "Hey honey I'm home," is followed by a press of lips, dry and cracked and loving.

"That's a new record," Clint laughed, "from arrival to threats to rescue."

From across the rickety table, Bruce sighed into his bowl. Trust Clint to make a laugh out of what could have been a very dangerous situation. He took another mouthful of stew, grinding his teeth down on the gristle, looking across at Clint. The mercenary sprawled himself on his seat, oozing comfort from every pore. His batons were propped on the chair leg by his feet and his bow was hanging on the wall and yet, he retained a sense of innocence. No, not innocence. It was more...

"Have I got something on my face?" Bruce blinked back into time, back into the moment. Clint was rubbing his hand over his mouth, empty bowl abandoned on the table. His nose, Bruce thought, was adorably scrunched. Suddenly there was a great rush of wind, dancing paper into the air and throwing the door back on its rusty hinges.

The two men were on their feet in an instant, the bow on the wall seeming to jump into Clint's hands. In the doorway stood a woman, an imposing figure. She wore the smart suit of the head of the local police force, excluding the badges, replacedy by an eagle-emblems on a shield. "Put the bow down." Clint cocked an eyebrow, lowering the bow and nocked arrow.

"My my, it's been a long time." The redhead in the shadows adopted a little smile: polite, refined. "It has."


	4. The Meeting

_Whoa so I really neglected this I apologise. To be fair to you, I only remebered to update this because my lovely friend duskodair updated her own story 'Valiance'. You should check that out if you ask me *nudge nudge wink wink*_

" _To draw a line there must be Justification, as a divide takes a distinctionr/qualification from, like a demarcation line - whats yours is not mine." - William S Labtis, To Draw a Line_

Natalia had just sat down, sipping the beer Nick put in frount of her, waiting for him to speak. Steve had just stopped his tune, drag of bow like nails on a blackboard as it screeched to a halt. There was a whisper of cloak, and a breath.

An orange hung like a small moon in the air for a few seconds before it was snatched. "Hey!" Groused Clint, "That was my orange."

James shrugged, "s'not my fault you threw it. I'm guessing that you are Natalia's extra help."

She'd told him of the Doctor and the archer long ago. Before he got thrown out of the police force, after he'd left the army. Natalia had told him of her (now-ex) then new partner. He was an archer, a sniper, a marksman. James had been the only one to even scrape a score as high as his in the field. As it turns out, as James had left, Clint had arrived - dragged in from a cell, given a second chance. It appeared to be Shield's (their shady government employers) speciality.

So that made four. James, Natalia, Clint and this doctor. James wasn't too sure about this doctor, not knowing his name or what exactly he was a doctor of.

"Have you see them?"

The graveness of Natalia's voice snapped him up from his thoughts. "The posters? Yeah. Been tearing them down whenever I see them."

James remembered Natalia mentioning this. After she had interrupted their night a few months back, asking for help, they'd been city hopping in an attempt to shake the officials.

They'd successfully played the roles of touring brothers, hippie road trippers and down on their luck builders; jumping into truck and on the backs of wagons to get them from A to B. B, of course being this bar - and the ice of the drinks slowly melting on the counter.

About two weeks ago, however, the posters had started appearing. A kindly faced man, brow drawn in anger. It was a good likeness, but key things were absent, and the drawing was just vague enough to let the pair go unnoticed still.

"At least," Clint said, finishing his beer and his story, "we were almost here by that point."

"Yes." James mutter to his drink, "shame you didn't get here sooner."

"I knew you missed my pretty face Barnes."

James shook his head. This whole mess was getting too big, Rumlow was only a small part. The group was scattered to far to reach everyone. The slip up with the booze had cost them the Carters loyalty (thanks to Rumlow), and there were rumours about another group rising in the west.

This stopped now.

"He got Steve. He messed with the shipping, he skipped out on payments, he jumped from one gang to another." A low whistle greeted that particular revelation.

"So we're all being dragged in because he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar?" Clint frowned, "I thought it might be a bit more important."

Natalia leaned forwards, placing her two cents into the conversation. "This is important, once we deal with him I would like you and Bruce to stay here. We get the Carters back on our side, we get trade running again, and we can have beer flowing as freely as water to anywhere."

James nodded, business had been slow since Steve had clashed with their forger Tony. With no false papers, it had been difficult, and the group has drifted off to other venues, like Natasha strolling back into the Security Division, and into a team with Clint. Brock Rumlow had been a dumb move, but he was all that was available. Now they were in deeper shit than before.

"I think we should make a public spectacle of Rumlow." Clint said. "It'll put us back into the community - so to speak." Natalia nodded in agreement. Privately James wanted to cut Rumlows throat, but he knew that the people here cared for Stevie, and would enjoy to see Rumlow get his comeuppance.

"We kept him down in the cellar. Its been a few days so he should be awake now. Let's do it tonight." Clint and Natalia nodded their consent, and, seeing Steve approach, stood from their seats and left.

As Natalia glided past him she looked at him, "that's the most I've heard you speak in a long time James. That boy is good for you."

Then she was gone, but the golden boy was drawing closer, and closer still. "Hey doll" James closed his eyes and let himself just be.


End file.
